


Summer Vacation

by osprey_archer



Series: Reciprocity [18]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: M/M, Recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-09
Updated: 2015-03-09
Packaged: 2018-03-17 02:47:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3512348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/osprey_archer/pseuds/osprey_archer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With Sam and Natasha's help, Steve recovers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Summer Vacation

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to [littlerhymes](http://archiveofourown.org/users/littlerhymes/pseuds/littlerhymes) for betaing this!

“Hey,” said Steve. 

“Hey,” Bucky said. He was sitting in Coulson’s desk chair again, or rather sprawling, sunk low in the chair like a sulky teenager. Steve tried not to stare too hard. It was the first time he had seen Bucky for a week, and he felt like he was trying to devour Bucky with his eyes, looking to see if he was tired, thinner, unhappy. 

Mostly Bucky looked like he would rather be anywhere else. 

Still sore at Steve, then. Steve didn’t blame him. 

The picture was crisp and clear: Coulson had wasted no time replacing the broken screen. Bucky had paid for it, which was fair, given he’d broken it.

At least it was the only thing he’d destroyed. After Bucky broke the screen during their last conversation, Steve had spent the next few hours pacing white-knuckled through the SHIELD field office corridors. “I can’t go back,” he said to Sam. “I can’t go back, that’s not an option, right?” 

“It absolutely is not,” said Sam. “Can you try to sit down, Steve? Just try it. Take a deep breath.” 

But Steve couldn’t calm down enough to sit until Natasha got a hold of Bobbi. Bobbi, sleepy and puzzled, reassured them that the Bus and everyone on it was in one piece. How’s Bucky? I can get up and check if you… _yawn_. 

Steve had wanted nothing more than to ask her to check on Bucky, but he restrained himself. It wasn’t going to do either him or Bucky any good if Steve joined the ranks of people who monitored Bucky from afar. Bucky hadn’t gone on a rampage; Steve would have to rest content with that until they talked. 

It had seemed impossible to wait a whole week. But Steve had taken long runs and painted half the rooms in Sam’s house and eaten everything in Sam’s freezer – Steve had begun to feel hungry again, with a terrible racking hunger that made him feel like he might never be full – and now the week had passed and he had the chance to talk to Bucky, and he didn’t know what to say. 

Steve cleared his throat. “How are you?” 

“Fine.”

“That’s great,” said Steve, with a false enthusiasm that he regretted as soon as it left his mouth. “I’m doing pretty well, too.”

The chair twitched a few inches, so Bucky was facing the wall rather than the screen. He didn’t reply. 

“I’ve been helping Sam paint his house,” Steve said. “He calls it occupational therapy.” He smiled a little. Bucky was picking at his fraying sweatshirt cuff with riveted attention. “It’s actually really soothing,” Steve said. “It’s…” 

Bucky’s upper lip twisted with faint but perceptible scorn. Steve cleared his throat. “What have you been up to?” Steve asked. 

A brief glance at the screen. “Classified,” Bucky said crisply.

Steve’s guilt was so thick in his throat he found it hard to keep talking. “I mean besides your missions.” 

A long thread unraveled from Bucky’s cuff. He pulled on it, tugging on the thread until it was nearly as long as his arm. “Stuff.” 

Another long pause. Finally Steve concluded that Bucky wasn’t going to go on without more prodding. “What kind of stuff?”

A shrug. “I’ve got to go,” Bucky said, and before Steve had a chance to reply, Bucky leaned forward and the screen went dark. He’d turned off the link. 

***

Steve sat at Sam’s kitchen table, cutting up strawberries. Sam, true to his promise, was keeping Steve busy. After Steve finished talking to Bucky that afternoon, he had dragged Steve to a farm where they made you pick your own strawberries – and never said a thing about how quickly Steve had gone in and out of SHIELD, for which Steve was grateful – and now they were making strawberry shortcake and a strawberry pie. Even with the windows open, the kitchen was almost too warm. 

The oak tree in Sam’s backyard rustled in the breeze. Steve found the solidity of the oak tree calming. It would still be there the next morning, and it would still be covered with early summer leaves; and like the tree, the next morning would arrive predictably after night. He hadn’t realized how disorienting he found the Bus’s constant movement until he left. 

He wondered if it bothered Bucky. If it disoriented Coulson, too, and that was why he thought Hydra was still on the verge of destroying SHIELD and taking over the world. 

“You listening, space cadet?” Sam asked, and Steve’s attention came back to the kitchen. 

“Sorry,” Steve said. “What were you saying?” 

“You’re not going to have the strawberries done by the time the shortbread cools if you don’t keep chopping.”

The paring knife hung limp between Steve’s fingers. He started cutting the strawberries again, and popped one in his mouth. He had eaten three burgers and a mountain of coleslaw for dinner, and he was still hungry.

Sam began to transfer the cooling shortbread to a plate. “Worried about Bucky?” he asked.

“Always,” Steve said, which was the truth, though probably not what Sam wanted to hear. 

“Did he pitch a fit at you?” 

“No.” 

A timer tinged. Sam fetched a pan out of the oven: cookies made from strips of extra piecrust brushed with butter and sprinkled with cinnamon sugar. They smelled like heaven. He set down the pan and tossed the oven mitt aside. “What happened, then? You were in and out – ” Sam snapped his fingers. “Like that.” 

“He hung up on me.” Steve snitched one of the slices of piecrust and ate it, never mind his burnt tongue. “He seemed…” Steve took another slice of piecrust. “Withdrawn.” Like he had gotten last summer. 

Bucky had felt rejected by Steve then, too. 

“That’s less likely to alienate everyone on the Bus than if he went back into asshole mode,” Sam said.

Steve nodded. Bucky had other friends now. It wasn’t as bad as last summer. 

“I just wish I’d handled it better,” Steve said. “That I hadn’t left the Bus so abruptly.” The piecrust shattered into shards between his fingers. He swept it off the countertop into the sink. He almost wished Bucky had poured forth a storm of scorn and insults, the kind of shit he said to Tompkins, fucking pathetic useless deadwood –

Steve shoved another strawberry into his mouth. There was no reason to treat himself to yet another rendition of the Steve Rogers Is a Waste of Space show.

Another timer rang. Sam got the pie out of the oven, and the rich sweet smell of cooked fruit filled the kitchen. “Steve,” said Sam.

“Yeah?”

“You’re never going to be able to go back in time and change any of this. There’s no point to worrying unless you want to torture yourself.”

“Yeah,” Steve said again. He ate another slice of piecrust. They were so good, and he was ravenous. 

Sam began to layer strawberries and whipped cream on the shortbread. “Have you thought any more about seeing an actual therapist?” he asked. 

Steve scowled. He didn’t want to have this conversation again. “You’re an actual therapist.”

Sam sighed. “Yeah, but I’m your friend, not your therapist.”

“And what if the therapist turns out to be Hydra?” That was probably paranoid. Somehow it was much easier to hear the paranoia when he actually said it out loud. “Okay, that’s unlikely. But if I go to a therapist, Hydra would figure the therapist would be a good way to learn about my weaknesses. I don’t want to put anyone in danger.” 

Sam spooned whipped cream on top of the shortcakes. “Okay,” he said.

It was the kind of okay that meant Sam would probably bring it up again, maybe in a week or so. Steve tried not to feel cranky about it. 

Sam set the two plates of shortcake on the kitchen table: one strawberry shortcake for him, three for Steve. “Dessert.” 

The shortcake was excellent. Steve wolfed down the first two and lingered over the third. He was finally beginning to feel full. 

***

These weekly calls reminded Steve of talking to Bucky right after he’d returned to SHIELD, when Bucky was still undergoing interrogation in that damn cell. Then, it had been Coulson who wouldn’t let Steve tell Bucky anything important: nothing about SHIELD, or their missions against Hydra, not even that Steve had pulverized as many of those damned memory-destroying chairs as he could find. Anything that might be important intel to take back to Hydra. 

So Steve had talked endlessly, inanely, mostly about the weather – although Coulson had scolded him about that, too, when Steve mentioned a freak hailstorm. “You can’t give him clues about where we are.” 

And through it all Bucky barely spoke, and stared at him with glassy doll eyes. 

Bucky didn’t stare at Steve now. He stared at the tabletop, or out the Bus windows, or at some spot on the wall over Steve’s shoulder, and rapped out one-word answers to Steve’s questions.

Probably Bucky wasn’t supposed to say anything to Steve that might give eavesdroppers clues where the Bus was. Possibly he was hiding behind that fact because he didn’t want to talk to Steve at all. 

His taciturnity constrained Steve far more effectively than Coulson’s prohibitions had ever done. Back then, Steve had sat across from Bucky, watching Bucky eat his cake, a thousand things he wanted to say beating against his lips. Even limiting himself to safe topics, he never ran out of things to say before their time was up. Bucky’s near-silence didn’t stop him; Steve’s confidence that Bucky was listening, that Bucky wanted Steve near him even if he couldn’t show it, was boundless then. 

The past two and a half years had chewed up Steve’s confidence and spat it back out. After Bucky had met half a dozen attempts at starting conversations with either “Classified” or “I dunno,” Steve’s brain seemed to shrivel, and they sat in silence. 

This was the third week. Sam said it was important for Steve to keep coming, even if they had nothing to say, but Steve wanted to rest his head on the tabletop and weep. 

“Please talk to me,” Steve blurted. 

Bucky’s eyes flickered over Steve’s face. “What about?”

“Anything. What you had for breakfast.” Breakfast couldn’t be too incriminating, could it? “Anything at all.” Of course breakfast could be incriminating. Regional breakfast food could be very distinctive, what was Steve thinking? 

“Waffles.” 

“With syrup? Fruit? Powdered sugar?” Steve knew that Bucky could blather on for hours about waffle toppings. After a mission, at an IHOP, everyone high as a kite on adrenaline and lack of sleep, Bucky and Skye had the whole team in fits arguing about whether bananas or strawberries were the superior waffle topping. 

Bucky bunched his hand over his mouth. “Maple syrup,” he said, and rubbed his hand over his face. “I’m not doing this,” he said, and he snapped the comlink off.

***

The subletters moved out of Steve’s apartment the end of May. Sam offered to help Steve move back in, but Steve refused. It was a furnished apartment, so there wasn’t much to move. Steve could have carried all his boxes up in one trip, purely on the basis of weight, although balancing them might have been a problem.

He didn’t try it. He took the boxes up two at a time and piled them up in a corner of the living room. Then he stood in the center of the living room, looking around the apartment, and went to open the blinds to let in some light. It was midday, but the apartment still felt oppressively dim and alien. 

Maybe unpacking his boxes would help him feel at home. Record player and record collection, books, cookware and crockery. A few pieces of art. Bucky had lived there two years and there was nothing in the boxes to show he’d ever been there. It was still _Steve’s apartment_ , as if Bucky had just been crashing through. 

That wasn’t Steve’s fault; Bucky had been stunningly resistant to personalizing the space at all, even to something as simple as buying himself a souvenir coffee mug after a mission. But the thought made Steve feel sad and tired nonetheless. He sagged down onto his couch. The couch sagged sympathetically under his weight. 

“I hate this place,” Steve commented to the empty room. Then he thought, _There’s no reason for me to stay_. 

It was a simple thought, but it broke on him like an epiphany, and he had a sudden wonderful sense of standing in boundless space. 

He had come back to this apartment after SHIELD fell because he thought Bucky might know how to find it. After Bucky came back to the new SHIELD, Steve stayed because he was too tired to look for a new place. But there was nothing binding him here now. He could move as soon as the lease ran out in October.

Heck, he didn’t even have to stay the summer. He could sublet the place again. People were always looking for sublets in DC. And he could find a new place, somewhere closer to Sam and to Peggy’s nursing home. 

Or, hell, he didn’t even have to rent a place just yet. He couldn’t impose on Sam any longer, but there were plenty of other places he could go. A couple of the Howling Commandos were still alive, and he’d been meaning to visit. He had a standing invitation to stay at Stark Tower as long as he wanted. (Or, more realistically, as long as he could stand Tony.) The Carters still owned the cottage where Peggy spent most of her summers growing up, and Sharon Carter had told him he could stay there any time he found himself in England. “I hope you know how much she loves your visits,” she told him. “Even if she doesn’t always recognize you now.” 

He didn’t feel quite up to jetting off to Europe yet. But give it another month. England was beautiful in July. 

In the meantime, Steve grabbed his laptop bag. He’d go to that café he liked, the one where he used to get breakfast after his runs, back before Bucky returned. (Had Steve really not been there in years? Bucky didn’t like eating out.) They had eggs Benedict and free WiFi; he’d put an ad on Craigslist. Maybe look at a few apartment listings himself. 

***

“You’re _moving_?” Bucky said. 

This was their sixth weekly talk over the comlink and the first time that Steve had startled a genuine reaction out of Bucky. Bucky was sitting up straight, leaning forward, frowning. 

“Yes,” said Steve. “Well, not right away. I’ll be traveling some this summer. But I want a fresh start. Somewhere with fewer bad memories attached.” 

Bucky scowled. “I’ve got a briefing,” he said, and reached to turn off the screen. 

“Wait!” said Steve, and Bucky actually paused. “Sorry. I didn’t say that right. I meant somewhere with fewer bad memories attached for both of us. This is the apartment you called ‘the place where you hated me all the time,’ remember?”

“I never hated you all the time.” Bucky sounded offended. 

“No, I know. I meant – anyway. When the lease runs out in October, I thought we could look for a new place,” Steve said. 

Bucky didn’t miss the pronoun. “Go ahead and find someplace on your own.” 

“No,” said Steve. His heart beat hard enough that he could feel it in his throat, but he continued. “I want to find a place we both like – somewhere you’ll feel at home. I know maybe you won’t be living with me permanently again, but I want you to have someplace to come home to if you ever want it. For vacation or sick leave or whatever.” 

Bucky sat frozen in the office chair, staring blankly at some place over Steve’s shoulder. Steve waited – he had gotten good at waiting for much longer pauses than felt natural – but Bucky didn’t speak and didn’t speak, and finally Steve said, “If you want.” 

Bucky’s eyes flickered briefly to Steve’s face, then fell to his lap.

Probably Bucky needed some time to digest all that. “What have you been up to?” Steve asked. 

“Fine,” Bucky replied absently. 

Steve hesitated. That didn’t exactly answer the question he’d asked. “Are you guys still doing movie nights?” he asked, because he figured the answer was almost definitely yes. 

Bucky nodded. 

“What’d you see most recently?” Steve asked. 

“ _The Princess Bride_.” Bucky’s hand ran up and down the chair arm. 

“Sam’s been trying to get me to watch that,” Steve said. “He swears it’s an American classic. Is it good?” 

“Dunno.” 

“Oh. I guess it wasn’t very memorable, then?”

Bucky shrugged. Sweat trickled down Steve’s back. The field office wasn’t very well air-conditioned. 

Steve shifted in his seat, searching for a cooler spot on the chair. “Wait, wait,” Bucky said, pushing his chair forward. 

“What?” Steve asked. 

Bucky’s right hand tightened on the chair arm, sliding down and then back up. He lifted his hand to his mouth, and let it fall again, and twitched so the chair slid a few inches sideways. “I don’t know. I don’t have anything to say,” he said, agitated. 

“I’ve got all afternoon,” Steve said, and then remembered that it probably wasn’t afternoon where Bucky was. “I don’t have anywhere to be for a few hours. Take your time. It doesn’t bother me.”

“It bothers _me_ ,” Bucky snapped. He spun the chair around. 

“I know,” Steve said. 

Bucky continued spinning the chair, but it got slower and slower until eventually it stopped. He rested the palm of his hand on the tabletop, fingers splayed. “Have you seen any movies lately?” His voice sounded a little unsteady. 

Steve had never wanted to answer a question more, but all the movies he had watched with Sam over the past month instantly disappeared from his mind. “Oh, God, I can’t remember,” Steve said, just to be talking. Babbling was no longer his forte. “I haven’t watched anything since I moved out of Sam’s place. We’ve been running, though. Three times a week at dawn around the National Mall, and breakfast after.” 

Bucky probably didn’t want to hear about Sam, not if he thought Sam was plotting against him. Steve’s mouth kept right on talking. “And generally I go to the VA with him after that. Till just before lunch.” He didn’t want Sam to feel trapped into having lunch with him. “I’ve been sorting out cupboards and things like that. You wouldn’t believe how many plastic forks they have tucked away in odd corners.”

Bucky folded his arms on the table and propped his chin on them and watched Steve as Steve prattled on and on about the mundane routines of his life. Coffee at Starbucks on the mornings when he ran alone. The baristas knew his order now and had it ready when he got to the cash register, which embarrassed him terribly the first time it happened. He’d been sketching again. Started seeing a massage therapist. Natasha had been in town for a couple days and they’d spent hours at the Air and Space Museum. 

It was boring stuff, but Bucky finally seemed to be listening, so Steve kept going. It occurred to him suddenly that this was the talking equivalent of reading aloud, and maybe Bucky needed that right now, for Steve to talk to him and demand nothing back. 

“I’ve been visiting Peggy again,” Steve said. “I’ve been reading her those Peggy Carter books. You know, the ones Simmons likes so much? I got a few of them off Amazon.” He couldn’t help smiling. “They’re _awful_ ,” he said. “But they keep popping into my head at odd moments. I’ll be washing the dishes and I think, ‘So how _is_ Peggy going to get out of the pit of poisonous snakes?’” 

“How did she?” Bucky asked.

He sounded alert, amused, _interested_. Steve managed not to react: it would spook Bucky back in his shell if Steve took notice. “Her nemesis the Russian assassin Tanya Molotova showed up and threw down a rope. ‘No one is allowed to kill you but me,’ said the Golden Tarantula – that’s her nickname – ‘and not until after we’ve defeated the threat of SPARROW.’” 

“SPARROW?”

“The most evil organization the world has ever known,” Steve said solemnly, and Bucky cracked out a laugh and quickly covered his mouth. 

Bucky went quiet again after that. Steve nonetheless treated himself to a waffle cone and three scoops of ice cream on the way home. 

***

In late June, Steve took the train up to Vermont to visit Dum Dum Dugan, who lived there with one of his grandchildren. Steve meant to take the train back to DC afterward, but Natasha showed up at the station. “Pepper’s dispatched me to bring you to Stark Tower,” she told him. “Tony’s planned a birthday party for you.”

Steve frowned, clutching his train tickets in his hand. “He never told me.” 

“It’s a surprise party,” Natasha said. She grinned at him. “Tony’s still kind of stuck on the whole ‘Do unto others as you would have them do unto you’ thing. He hasn’t gotten the hang of the idea that not everyone _wants_ to celebrate their birthday with five hundred people they’ve never met before.”

Steve’s frown turned into a grimace. That sounded like hell.

“I’m also supposed to tell you that we can pretend there’s a crisis in Paris and spend your birthday eating éclairs if you want. Tony will be sad for about five seconds before he realizes he can just have a plain old Fourth of July party.” 

Steve was tempted, but – “Nah, let’s go to the party,” he said, and stowed the train tickets in his pocket. He was always telling himself he should meet more people, after all. 

“Tony will probably forget it’s your party halfway through anyway,” Natasha said. “You just have to get through the cake, and then you can slip away.” 

Steve stowed his duffel bag in the backseat of Natasha’s surprisingly sedate Ford Fusion. They got in the car, and as Natasha put the car in gear, she said, “I’m also just back from a couple weeks on the Bus. I figured you’d want to hear about that.”

“Yes! Why didn’t you lead with that?”

“Prying ears,” Natasha said, and tugged her earlobe. 

Of course. “How is he?” Steve asked. 

“Mack?” said Natasha. “Coulson finally let him poke around on Lola’s engine, so he’s over the moon.”

“Natasha!”

“Coulson’s inundated with reports, as usual,” Natasha continued, and turned out of the parking lot. She was smirking.

“Nat.” 

“Oh, you meant _Fitz_ ,” said Natasha. “He acquired a pet monkey last mission. Bucky and Simmons tried to interest me in a proposal to kidnap it off the plane.” 

“Obviously I was asking about the monkey,” Steve told her. “I can’t believe you didn’t guess.”

“The monkey is a she,” Natasha said archly. Then she sobered. “Bucky’s doing okay. A little rocky sometimes. A little withdrawn. But you couldn’t expect him to carry on as if nothing happened.” 

“Of course,” said Steve, and felt a pinprick of the old guilt. But it didn’t threaten to overwhelm him this time. 

Natasha’s lips quirked into a private half-smile. “God, he can be such a brat,” she said affectionately. Her smile grew into a full-blown grin. “I can’t believe you looked after him practically on your own for two years. I would have throttled him, because _God_. He can be _such_ a brat.” 

Steve looked at her, and she glanced sideways at him, and they both burst out laughing. 

“It’s good, though,” said Natasha. “He’s willing to fight for what he wants. When he wants to trust people again, he’ll fight for that like he’s fought for everything else.” 

_When_. “You think he’s ever going to want that?” Steve asked. 

“I think he does already,” Natasha said. “He’s just not ready to lay his weapons down.”

They drove on. Natasha had picked a back road rather than the interstate, winding past copses of trees and villages with decaying downtowns. They passed a church with a tilted steeple, like the Leaning Tower of Pisa. 

“I went to school near here,” Natasha said. 

“You did?”

She nodded. “My first long-term undercover mission,” she said, and Steve thought, _of course_. Sometimes he forgot just how young she had been when she became a spy. “I was thirteen. We needed to find a fugitive, and I befriended his daughter at boarding school to see if we could get anything out of her. Sympathized when she cried about never seeing Daddy. Danced around her dorm room to Backstreet Boys when she got word that he’d be in New York over Christmas, so she could have lunch with him. At their favorite restaurant. Some dinky Italian place called Saviano’s. It had a back alley just perfect for garroting.” 

Steve glanced at her quickly. She caught the question in it and shook her head. “I didn’t do it. Andrei Nikolaevich and I were having a fancy tea down the street to watch the emergency vehicles swarm. He scolded me because I couldn’t stay still. I kept scooting over to the windows. I wanted to see the body brought out…”

Steve glanced at her again. Her look didn’t invite comment, which was good, because he didn’t know what to say. He had never seen her look quite like this before: not paying attention to how her audience was receiving her story, but simply telling it.

“She loved Lisa Frank stickers,” Natasha said. “I hate them. To this day.” Her hands flexed on the steering wheel. “I hated everything about her. Everything about all of them. All those children with their boring friends and boring puppy loves, writing boring emails home to Mom and Dad. They never would have survived my training program. I was so much smarter and stronger and better than them, I was so special I didn’t _need_ friends. I didn’t need anyone.” 

She did glance at Steve then, and smiled crookedly. “You were a little kid,” Steve said. 

“Thirteen’s not that little,” Natasha said, and there was enough of the thirteen-year-old in her at that moment that she bridled a little. But then she shook her head, brushing away the ghosts, and said, “There was a point to this story. I didn’t bring it up because I’m looking for absolution. I meant that I know what it’s like to hate something because you want it too much.” She took a curve in the road slowly, lower lip between her teeth, and then burst out, “I’m sorry I’ve been such a bad friend.” 

“What do you mean? Natasha, you’re a great friend. I’d probably still be slowly going nuts on the Bus without you.”

Natasha shook her head. “I ran to the opposite end of the globe for the nearly two years after Bucky got back. I knew some of what he’d be going through, I could have helped you, but I just couldn’t…” She balled up her fist and struck it against the dashboard. “I should have been there to help. I could have made things so much less hard on you.” 

“Natasha, your whole life fell apart when SHIELD imploded. I didn’t expect – ”

“I _know_ you didn’t expect anything else of me!” Natasha took a deep breath. “I want to be the kind of person you expect things from.” 

“Well, you’re in luck,” Steve said. “Because I expect a lot of you. I expect you to shoot bad guys and backflip onto Chitauri hovercraft and know nearly everything, and pretend to know everything you don’t, and pick me up at unexpected moments to force me to have fun. You know I’m not very good at that. And I wouldn’t say I _expect_ you to look great while doing all that, but that’s a nice bonus.” 

He could see that she was trying not to smile: not quite ready to let go of her self-accusation yet. “I got myself assigned to an undercover mission in _Antarctica_ ,” she told him. “Just to get away.” 

“Were they weaponizing penguins?” 

Natasha glanced at him. Steve kept his face perfectly serious, and just like that she laughed. “I have no idea,” she said. “I spent nearly three months there and I’m still not sure what they thought they were doing. I think their master plan was to hide out, wait for all the other Hydra heads to kill each other, and then declare themselves king of the rubble.” The laughter left her face, and she was serious again. “I just wanted you to know that I’m sorry for letting you down.”

“You didn’t,” Steve assured her. 

Natasha nodded. She kept her eyes on the road, guiding the car around a hairpin turn. “And I always look great,” she informed him. “I rocked that parka.” 

“I bet you did,” Steve said. 

***

Steve escaped from his birthday party midway through the fireworks show. Not that he didn’t appreciate Tony and Pepper’s hard work putting the party together; he just needed a few minutes to catch his breath, that was all. 

He went up to Pepper’s garden on the Stark Tower roof and plopped down on a swinging bench. It rocked beneath him, and Steve slipped off onto the dirt. He looked around furtively and began to snicker. 

Apparently Bucky had been right when he said Steve could still get drunk, or tipsy, anyway. All it took was two bottles of champagne and about a dozen Jell-O shots, and he wanted to hug everyone or possibly cry. 

He got up and sat on the bench again, more gingerly. Overhead, Tony flew among the fireworks in his newest suit, a blaze of crimson and gold, and Steve felt a surge of immense fondness for him. 

“Captain Rogers,” JARVIS said, and Steve felt a sudden fondness for him – it? – too. 

“I never thanked you for the bubbles,” Steve blurted. 

“Very good, sir,” said JARVIS. “Agent Barnes is on the line. Do you want to speak to him?”

Steve got to his feet. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, yes, show me where I ought to go. Tell him I’m coming, keep him on the line.” He didn’t wait for the elevator; he took the stairs down from the rooftop three at a time. 

The picture quality on Tony’s screens was crystal clear, far better than at the SHIELD field office. Steve could see faint smudges under Bucky’s eyes, like he hadn’t been sleeping well. But Bucky smiled when Steve appeared. He sat straddling Coulson’s office chair, his arms wrapped around the back. “Happy birthday,” he said. 

“Thanks,” Steve said, smiling back, and he wanted to reach through the screen and run his fingers through Bucky’s hair, which looked clean, for once, and kiss him all over that smile till he laughed. 

This was why Steve had never drunk much. 

Bucky lowered his head. A few fireworks burst in the sky, splashing red and blue light across the walls. “I don’t have anything else. That’s really all I called to say,” Bucky said.

“I’m glad you called,” Steve said, smiling. Tears welled up in his eyes. Jesus. “I’m a little drunk,” he added. “Too much champagne.” 

The tears seemed to unnerve Bucky. He glanced around as if he were looking for an escape route. “I really, you ought to get back to your party. Sorry for interrupting.”

“No, no, no,” Steve said quickly, leaning forward, as if he could somehow reach through the comscreen and grab Bucky’s hand before Bucky turned off the link. “Talk to me. I miss you.” 

Bucky’s face twisted up, like it hurt him to hear. Steve almost flinched – Bucky so often reacted to pain by lashing out – but Bucky swallowed, and said, “Anyone make you a cake?” 

“Tony ordered one. It looked exactly like my shield,” Steve said. “Until he lit all hundred sparklers that he put on it. Then it kind of caught fire.” 

Bucky grinned a little. 

“Yeah, it was great,” Steve said, encouraged. “The fondant melted off and the cake part scorched and… yeah. I’ll send you the video Darcy took.” 

“So you didn’t get to eat any of it? Shit, that’s rough.”

“Not that one. But Pepper must have figured Tony’s one hundred sparklers idea was going to end in disaster, because she ordered a backup cake.”

“What kind?”

“Yellow cake with chocolate icing. Tony thought it should be more patriotic, but… It was kind of nice having a cake for just for me, not for Captain America, you know?”

“It must’ve been great,” Bucky said.

He didn’t sound jealous, only a little wistful. But he wasn’t looking at Steve, and Steve suddenly felt embarrassed, bragging about a party Bucky hadn’t even been invited to. “You remember when my mom took us to Coney Island for my birthday?” Steve asked. Steve’s mom never had enough money for a big birthday party for him, but there had been a couple of years in the late twenties when she had enough for Coney Island – not for any of the rides, but just to go out and enjoy the crowds. “You won me a teddy bear at the rifle range.” 

Bucky’s face brightened up. “Always have been a good shot.” 

“Yeah,” said Steve, uncomfortable: trust Bucky to tie this back into assassinations. “I was thinking more that you were generous, though.” 

Bucky looked away and scratched the back of his head and shrugged, like the praise was itchy. “Steve,” he said. 

“Yeah?”

But there was another pause, and when Bucky spoke Steve had the impression that he’d changed what he was going to say. “You remember the summer I worked at Coney Island?” Bucky said. 

“Course I remember. At least, I remember the story about how you made out with the Siamese twins.” 

“Aw.” Bucky was grinning. “Made that one up.” 

“I knew it!” Steve yelled, and Bucky pressed his face against the chair back to hide his smile. 

“I ought to let you get back to your party,” he said again. “Sorry I didn’t get you anything.”

“No, don’t worry about it. I don’t have to go back yet, Buck, we can talk more.” 

Bucky was shaking his head, disentangling himself from the arms of the chair. “No, I’d better go,” he said. “Eat a slice of cake for me, okay?” 

“Okay – ”

But the screen went black. 

Steve got up carefully, just in case he was still a little unsteady, but the champagne and Jell-O shots seemed to have worn off. He leaned against the table, just to make sure, and went to eat that slice of cake.

***

“A consultant?” said Coulson. 

“Like Tony,” said Steve. “I know he works with you guys if a massive threat to world security comes up. Or something in New York. Obviously it would be in DC in my case.” 

It was still three weeks before his sick leave officially ended, but Steve figured it was better to bring up the future himself. The first one to bring it up set the terms for the debate. 

He had totted up some numbers in preparation for this conversation. In between the money he’d saved and the money he could make from public appearances, he’d have more than enough to live comfortably – more than enough for him and Bucky both, if Bucky ever wanted to leave SHIELD. He found it a little embarrassing that people would pay him so much for a speech, but he did give good speeches: at least they’d get their money’s worth. 

“Unlike Tony I’d expect to be paid for consultations,” Steve continued. “But of course I don’t expect to continue drawing a salary or health benefits. Although I am hoping I can still see Dr. Agrawal. It’s hard to find a physician familiar with supersoldier physiology.” 

“I can see that,” Coulson said. “I imagine you’ll want access to the SHIELD gym, too.” 

“If it’s not inconvenient,” Steve said. “I’d hate for the specially calibrated machines to gather rust when Bucky’s not in DC.” 

Steve thought Coulson relaxed a little at Steve’s tacit admission that Bucky would continue with SHIELD, although it was always hard to tell with Coulson. As much as Steve wanted Bucky off the Bus, that would have to be Bucky’s decision: Steve was not going to fight Coulson over him as if Bucky were some sort of parcel. 

That didn’t mean Steve intended to stop fighting. It was just that Bucky was the one he would fight to convince. 

“Well,” said Coulson. “I’m sorry to see you go, of course.” The regret sounded genuine, which surprised Steve. He had figured Coulson would be happy to get rid of him. “But this all seems reasonable. By all means, feel free to keep using the gym and seeing Dr. Agrawal. She’d hate to lose her star patient.” 

“Thank you,” said Steve, and tried not to feel too grateful that Coulson was being so reasonable. Consulting could easily turn into recruitment: that was how Fury got Steve the first time. Coulson would almost certainly try to sucker him into unnecessary missions. Steve needed to stay on his guard. 

And he had another favor to ask. “One other thing,” said Steve. “Well, two other things. I’d like to see Bucky when my sick leave ends.” 

“We don’t have time to come to DC for a social visit,” Coulson said. 

Steve had expected that. “I’d be happy to travel somewhere convenient to the Bus, so you won’t have to go out of your way,” he said. “Just give Bucky a couple days’ leave to come see me.” 

“Do you really think that’s wise?” Coulson asked.

“Yes,” Steve said. 

“I think it will upset him again,” Coulson said. 

There was a touch of heaviness in his voice, an echo of just how draining Bucky could be when he was upset. It was enough to make Steve hesitate, but only for a moment: he was no longer exhausted and confused and paranoid, and he was not going to let Coulson manipulate him. “Of course it might. But I think in the long run he’ll be more stable if he sees me regularly, and the long run is the important thing,” Steve said. 

“And that’s the second favor you want to ask for,” Coulson said. 

“Yes,” said Steve. “As you pointed out, it upset him when I left the Bus. I think regular visits will stabilize him.” 

“Do you think mental fragility is a side effect of the superserum?” Coulson said it so peaceably that Steve almost didn’t feel the sting. 

“I think everyone benefits from regular vacations,” Steve said levelly. “You should try it sometime. It might do you a world of good.” 

They looked at each other through the comscreen. Steve allowed himself a smile. Coulson nodded, and it had in it the air of a man tipping his hat to a hand well played. “I can arrange a visit at the end of your sick leave,” Coulson said. “As for the advisability of regular visits – you’ll have to discuss that with Agent Barnes.” 

Only after the comscreen clicked off did Steve allow himself to sag back in his chair. He had been sitting on the edge of his seat the whole time. 

Almost certainly Coulson had some reason to believe Bucky would refuse regular visits: something he’d seen in the previous months that Steve, in his short phone calls, had missed. Maybe Coulson even meant to lean on Bucky a little. 

Steve would deal with it when it came. For now, he checked the time on his phone. Time for a run before he headed over to the picnic at the VA. He’d stop and pick up some hamburgers on the way.


End file.
